Criminals Describe Life in the Middle Ages

Medieval authorities liked to think they had crime under control. They didn't. Nearly every town had a gibbet, a giant wooden cross where criminals were hanged and left to rot as a warning to others. The message was pretty simple, commit a crime and you'll end up swinging. But that didn't work. In 1202, the city of Lincoln had just 7,000 people. Yet that year alone, 114 people were, let's say, permanently voted off the island. 89 were violently robbed and 65 were wounded in attacks. And what was the punishment? Only two executions. That's right, out of over 250 violent crimes, only two people paid with their lives. The rest got away with it. It turns out medieval justice had more loopholes than a poorly written terms of service agreement. If you were clever, you could bribe a judge, claim sanctuary in a church, or pull a full-on robin hood and disappear into the woods. And if you got caught, well, let's just say a quick hanging was the VIP exit. Because medieval authorities had a flair for punishments that made death seem like the polite option. Taking someone's life was bad, but insulting God? That's unforgivable. In medieval Europe, blasphemy and heresy were often considered worse crimes than actual violence. If you were caught speaking against the church, questioning doctrine, or even using God's name in vain, you weren't just looking at a fine, you were risking your life. The punishments? They were brutal. Some had their tongues cut out so they could never blaspheme again. Others were branded on the forehead, a permanent mark labeling them as enemies of the faith. In extreme cases, blasphemers were burned alive, the church making sure their last words were screams and not curses. Thomas Aquinas, one of the most influential medieval theologians, made the church's stance clear. If false coiners are justly put to death, much more may heretics be justly slain. Translation? If counterfeiters could be executed for making fake money, then people who spread fake religion absolutely deserved to die. And the authorities took that seriously. Some cases were almost comically cruel. In 1431, a Frenchman was convicted of blasphemy and forced to walk through the streets wearing a giant wooden board around his neck, covered in the very words he was not supposed to say. But others? Yeah, they weren't so lucky. In England, repeated blasphemers were tortured on the rack or locked in stocks while the townspeople pelted them with rotten food and dung. And if you insulted the church too loudly, you'd be declared a heretic and handed over to the Inquisition. And this isn't referring to just the Spanish Inquisition. You had old daddy inquisitions that came before that. There was the so-called Medieval Inquisition, which ran from 1184 to the 1300s, which was established by the Catholic Church to combat heresy in France, Italy, and Germany. It was run by the Dominican Order and focused on groups like the Cathars and Waldensians. You also had the Papal Inquisition, started by Pope Gregory IX in the 1230s, which was kind of an offshoot of that original Inquisition. But whatever Inquisition got you, your options were limited if they did get you. Either confess, repent, and hope for a quick death, or refuse and find out just how creative medieval torture could get. Medieval law treated theft like a game show, where the prize ranged from a slap on the wrist to a surprise necktie party in the town square. There was zero consistency. One guy might get off with a fine while another got a front row seat to his own execution. The only real rule? Don't get caught. And if you do, pray the judge is in a good mood. Take Hugh of Winchcombe. In 1264, he was caught stealing cloth and a horse in London. Hugh's punishment? Immediate execution. No second chances, no appeals, just a quick hangin' and making an example out of him. Meanwhile, across the Channel in France, a teenager stole a cloak and was only banished for three months. The message was pretty clear. It wasn't what you stole that mattered. It was where you stole it and from whom. And then there were professional criminals. The Warrant family of Bedfordshire practically turned theft into a business. Between 1265 and 1272, they were charged with robbery 29 times. Somehow they kept walking free, probably by bribing officials, threatening witnesses, or blaming someone else. And they weren't alone. Medieval England had plenty of gangs that made a living off raiding travelers and robbing markets. But not all thieves were locals. In 1303, a gang led by Richard Pudlecut pulled off one of the biggest heists in medieval history, robbing the crown jewels from Westminster Abbey. He and his crew looted King Edward I's personal treasure from inside a church, with some monks likely helping. When the king found out, over 50 people were arrested. Some were executed. And Pudlecut was tortured and hanged, his body was left dangling in chains as a warning. In the Middle Ages, theft was everywhere. If you were clever enough, well-connected, or lucky, you could get away with it. If not, you'd end up on the gallows. If you, let's say, deleted someone from the mortal database in medieval Europe, your biggest problem wasn't really the law. It was making sure no one saw you do it. There were no detectives and no forensic evidence, and outside of big cities, almost no one whose job it was to catch Murr, I'm sorry, lifetakers. As if they're like those Harry Potter Dementors that suck out your soul. And if you got away from the crime scene fast enough, chances were you'd never be caught, even if Dementors were following you. Most towns didn't have police forces except in parts of Italy where some cities had paid officers who mostly ate pizza instead of donuts, drank wine, and played Mario Kart to pass the time. Everywhere else, justice was handled by local lords and sheriffs or just angry family members looking for revenge. If you were lucky enough to be arrested, a medieval trial was a chaotic mess of unreliable witnesses and trial by ordeal, where your guilt might be decided by whether you could grab a hot iron bar without screaming. But the easiest way to avoid punishment was to just disappear. The countryside was vast, forests were everywhere, and travel was so slow that a killer could ride just a few miles away and never be found. If someone wanted to track you down, they'd have to know your name, your face, and where you were headed. And most of the time, they didn't. So for many, escaping was as simple as walking away. Obviously, it meant you were no longer protected by the law. Anyone could rob you, beat you, or kill you on sight, and they wouldn't be punished for it. Your land? Gone. Your family? Legally forbidden from helping you. In theory, becoming an outlaw was a death sentence. In practice? Some of them thrived. Medieval England had entire bands of outlaws living in forests, mountains, and marshes, attacking travelers and raiding villages. Some were murderers on the run, but others were nobles who had rebelled against the king, mercenaries turned bandits, or professional criminals who knew how to survive off the land. They stole horses, hijacked merchant wagons, and if they were bold, even robbed churches. Some like Eustace the Monk made an art out of outlawing. Originally a Benedictine monk, Eustace ditched the monastery, became a mercenary, and then started robbing nobles in northern France and England. When he got bored of land-based crimes, he became a pirate, leading a fleet that terrorized the English Channel. He was so good at switching sides, betraying lords, and escaping traps, that both the English and French kings wanted him gone, departed, perished, you know, hanging out with Elvis. Eventually he was captured and beheaded, but only after causing absolute chaos for decades. Then there was Folk Fitzwarren, a noble outlaw who waged a private war against King John. After a land dispute, Folk was declared an outlaw. Instead of surrendering, he gathered a gang and spent years ambushing royal officials, raiding castles, and even escaping from prison. His life was so wild that later writers turned his exploits into a legend, one of the inspirations for Robin Hood. But most outlaws didn't become famous. Most were hunted down, betrayed, or hanged. The lucky ones found a way to get a pardon, either by paying off the right people or fighting for the king in one of his endless wars. Medieval law had a lot of ways to kill you, but it also had one strange loophole. If you could reach a church, monastery, or cathedral before someone caught you, you were untouchable. It didn't matter if you had stolen a horse or murdered a noble. Once you crossed into sacred ground, the law had to wait. Now that didn't mean you were safe forever. You had 40 days to figure out your next move. You could try to negotiate a pardon, buy your way out of trouble, or if that failed, take the one guaranteed deal the church offered. Exile. You'd be stripped of your possessions, forced to walk barefoot to the nearest port, and put on a ship. Where were you going? Didn't matter. All that mattered was that you were gone. Of course, some criminals tried to cheat the system. Take Ralph of Oldgate, for example. In 1284, he was walking with his mistress Alice when a goldsmith named Lawrence Duquette insulting her, calling her a fallen woman, meaning she was, you know, not one with God, loose in the caboose, a dirty woman, and all that. That was enough to start a fight. Ralph was badly injured and fearing that he had killed him, Lawrence ran straight to the church of St. Mary Lebeau and claimed sanctuary. But Ralph didn't die. Instead, he recovered and he and his friends weren't about to let the insult, or the attempted, let's call it a life-taking event this time, go unanswered. One night, Alice and a group of men stormed into the church, dragged Lawrence from his hiding place, and hanged him from one of the beams. It was a direct violation of sanctuary law, and the authorities made an example out of all of them. Alice was burned at the stake while her 15 accomplices were all hanged. As for Lawrence, since taking your own life was also considered a crime, his body was thrown into a ditch, like garbage. If you had enough money, power, or the right friends, medieval law didn't apply to you. Corruption was everywhere, judges could be bought, juries could be rigged, and if you were rich enough, you could commit crimes openly without consequences. Take Sir William Thorpe, the Chief Justice of England in 1350. He was supposed to uphold the law, but instead, he took so many bribes that King Edward III had him arrested. Thorpe was fined 3,000 pounds, a fortune at the time, about $3,800 today, but was later quietly released. He didn't even lose his title. That's how corruption worked though. You only got punished if you annoyed the wrong people. It wasn't just the English. In 1240, a group of Belgian merchants went straight to King Henry III to complain about how badly they were getting cheated in England. The local officials, the ones who were supposed to protect trade, were the ones robbing them. Instead of helping, English authorities demanded massive bribes just to let the merchants do business. Henry III, probably enjoying the profits, ignored them. And if you wanted to get away with, how about calling it forced life-taking this time, bribed the right sheriff, and your crime disappeared. Entire juries were sometimes made up of a criminal's friends and accomplices, meaning they could walk free while innocent men got hanged. Some towns were so corrupt that law enforcement functioned more like organized crime, selling pardons, stealing from prisoners, and cutting deals with local gangs. The only time corruption didn't work? When the king wanted you dead. If you stole from the wrong noble or embarrassed the monarchy, your bribes wouldn't save you. That's when you ended up on the gallows, wondering where all your money went. Thanks for watching Nutty Productions. If you enjoyed this video, don't forget to like, subscribe, and leave a comment. Question, how would you survive on the run as a medieval fugitive? Let me know below and see you next time!